


A Terrible Kind of Beauty

by learielle



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst thrown in, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Smut, Trespasser DLC, Vignette, a lot of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-22 00:05:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9572864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/learielle/pseuds/learielle
Summary: Lavellan loves the rotunda, but she loves the man who paints it even more.Solas and Lavellan's relationship with a (hopefully) satisfactory ending.





	

Lavellan loves the rotunda.

She’s loved it since the moment she first set eyes on it, back when Skyhold was still half a ruin, rubble everywhere and holes in the ceiling. She loves it even more when Solas situates his desk there, making it _his_ spot, just as how Varric claimed the fireplace and Dorian the little reading nook upstairs.

Vivienne has taken control of the balcony without much fuss; no one else wanted that spot anyway. Sera’s tavern room has become a hoarder’s emporium no one quite dares to enter, and Cassandra would be happy anywhere she has something to hit.

She expected Solas to choose a spot more directly within the vicinity of a bookshelf, especially given that the relations between him and the Tevinter mage have improved somewhat. But Solas claims the rotunda, and Lavellan thinks it works out quite well.

There have been… lingering glances, between her and Solas.

She sits at his desk and pores over his books. A heavy, glowing tome on Rift magic captivates her greatly. It’s the magic he uses during their expeditions, and perhaps reading the book will help her learn. She devours his notes on theoretical magic, spidery handwriting and crossed out theories.

“What interests you?” he asks.

Lavellan sets the tome down with a sigh, and looks at him square in the eyes. He is smiling; some say he rarely does, that he is a solemn man of few words, but she finds that not quite true. He smiles. He laughs. He says plenty, should you ask the right questions.

“Everything,” she replies.

…

 

Skyhold shapes up slowly, Inquisition heraldry strung against the walls. Someone – probably Josephine – thinks to put Dalish banners around. It doesn’t quite fit with the rest of the place, but it reminds her of home.

The level above the rotunda has become a library of sorts, and the level above that has become Leliana’s rookery. The ravens are well-behaved, intelligent and sharp-eyed. She’s had complaints about people finding them unsettling, requesting that she order Leliana to reposition them elsewhere; she tells them to reposition themselves instead.

Dorian complains about the selection of books, but in jest. He’s keeping himself occupied well enough, what with gossip attacking him from every corner. Cassandra wants to hit things with a sword. Sera wants pranks. Cole wants to help people.

Solas asks for paint.

He runs the request by Josephine, and for a long while Lavellan doesn’t notice. One morning, when she bounds into the rotunda, she finds him hard at work on the walls. He works fast, his movements bold and precise. She recognizes some of the imagery; an explosion, the symbol of the Inquisition, and many more. The paintings are huge, taking up the whole height of the rotunda wall.

“What are you painting?” she asks.

Solas pauses in his painting, and turns to look at her. “It is your story, _lethallan_.” Her mouth falls open and he chuckles at the sight. “Consider it a gift, Inquisitor.”

She pouts ever so slightly. “I’d rather you call me _lethallan_ than that.”

She looks at the paintings with a new light. Sure enough, she sees it now; the breach, the formation of the inquisition, the two contrasting versions of Redcliffe Castle. Currently, brushstroke by brushstroke, the fall of Haven is being illustrated.

The images bring a sharp stab of pain to her heart. She wants to cry.

Instead, she swallows and turns to Solas. “Did you not sleep?”

He waves the question aside and doesn’t answer.

Lavellan takes that as a yes.

She wants to ask if he wants some tea to keep himself awake, but snooping around in the kitchens has told her that Solas detests tea.

There are reports to be read, and rifts to close, but for now, Lavellan is perfectly content to curl up on his chair and watch him paint. And she’s pretty sure, despite the fact that she can’t see his face, that he’s smiling, too.

…

 

Leliana has someone come examine the frescoes. Lavellan hears of it, and asks to see the report. She learns – without much surprise – that Solas has considerable skill in these things. The four completed panels are beautiful, and knowing that it was a gift to her makes them even more so.

He doesn’t mind people looking at the frescoes, she supposes. He paints other things too, sketches, sometimes. Lavellan watches him do it, pen and ink and paint and pigment. He indulges her fascination, even takes her requests now and then.

But no matter how indifferent he seems, she can tell that the frescoes are his pride. She tells him – repeatedly – that she loves them, and his face lights up each time. She compliments him on the tremendous skill and years of study for him to reach this level of expertise. She wonders where he learned it all.

“Did you learn it in the Fade?”

His answering smile is sad. “I’m afraid not.”

Lavellan doesn’t ask.

…

 

“I’d like to know more about you,” she says one day.

“Certainly,” he says. He smiles again, this time cryptic. “But I had hoped to take our discussion elsewhere, preferably somewhere more interesting than this.”

“Where?”

“ _Here_.”

She looks around. They are in Haven, and this is the Fade.

She marvels at everything, stretches her hands out and tries to touch the sky, feels the cold breeze blowing through her hair. It’s snowing. It feels like Haven didn’t burn down.

She’s a mage, of course – she knows the Fade when she’s in it. She wonders what’s happening with her physical body right now, but she can’t bring herself to care that much, yet.

“Why here?”

They stand outside the Chantry, and Lavellan finds it difficult to suppress the flood of memories. She remembers the cold dungeon, the faint – if constant – presence of someone tending to her in her delirium, someone she’d later learned to be Solas.

“This place, it will always be important to you.”

He was right about that.

Lavellan sits down on the ground, staring at the Breach in the sky with something akin to indifference. She’d been afraid of it, when she first saw it. Now she wanted it gone. She flops down, flat on her back. “Can you fall sleep in the Fade, if you are already asleep in reality?”

He chuckles. “You may try, _lethallan_ , you may try.”

At that, Lavellan bolts right up, mischievous grin on her face. “As compelling as that sounds, I’d much rather know about you.” When he stays silent, she asks a question. “Where did you learn to paint?”

He regards her, and Lavellan quivers with anticipation. There are a great many things about Solas she does not know, and she wants to know everything.

“I started it early as a hobby. As the years passed it became a way to calm my thoughts; I drew comfort from the freedom and methodical rhythm.” He tilts his head up to the sky. “It has been a while since I painted anything of importance.”

Lavellan’s grin grows wider. “I knew it! For all your nonchalant replies, you’re secretly very proud of them! The frescoes!” She’s not quite sure why she’s giggling, but she runs with it anyway. Solas laughs with her, and she sees the hint of a blush creep up his cheeks.

“But of course,” he says. “It is your story. Oftentimes, stories are lost, twisted and mangled until it no longer resembles the original tale. To preserve your story, Inquisitor – it is a great honor.”

She sighs. “Thank you for the sentiment, Solas, but you really don’t have to keep calling me Inquisitor, or the Herald. _Lethallan_ , or ‘hey you there!’ or even Lavellan would—”

“Ellana.”

She stops short. “Say that again.”

“Ellana.” _Ellana. Ellana. Ellana._

Her name sounds like velvet in his voice.

Heartbeat at her throat, she looks at him. His eyes are fixated on her lips. She kisses his cheek – just shy of the corner of his mouth.

He doesn’t move.

Lavellan leans forward and touches his lips with her own.

And then they are kissing, tongues and teeth and fevered sighs. His hands move to envelop her, and she curls her fingers over his scalp. She drinks his kisses like they are wine, until she is drunk, and her legs almost give way. He ravishes her mouth with his tongue, and she sinks her teeth gently into his bottom lip. It drives him mad; his grip on her tightens, and he presses their bodies close. She’s flush against him, every hard plane of his body pressing into her, and she loves it.

She closes her eyes, begs her brain to ingrain this memory into her forever. She feels like she is dreaming.

But she is.

When they pull away, Solas tells her to wake up.

Lavellan wakes up.

…

 

She goes straight to the rotunda.

When she opened her eyes, somehow, she was on her bed. She kicks the covers off and flings the door wide open, nearly tumbles down the stairs in her haste.

Skyhold is silent.

Solas is smirking when he sees her approach the rotunda. “Sleep well?”

The first thing she does is pull him to her by the front of his sweater. She kisses him. Hard.

He kisses her back, pressing her against his desk. The kiss turns from rough and hard to slow and sensual. His hands wander from her arms to her waist, and they are so very warm. He explores the curves of her waist through her thin nightgown; for a brief moment Lavellan wonders how she’d gotten into them in the first place. The last time she’d been conscious, she was wearing something else. Had Solas changed her clothes?

The thought sends a shiver down her spine.

He kisses her softly, sweetly, and presses his forehead against hers. He whispers something against her lips.

 _You change everything_.

…

 

She catches him drinking tea one day. He doesn’t look happy about it.

Later, he asks for a favor.

They go out, four of them. Her and him and Cassandra and Cole. There are Elven ruins in the Exalted Plains, and she wonders how they compare to the sights he has seen in the Fade, but now is not the time. Cole supplies them with obscure remarks; Lavellan wonders if ever a day would come when she’s able to understand him completely.

Solas is looking for his friend. They find her, but she doesn’t survive.

The mages that caused it don’t survive either.

 _Mala suledin nadas_ , his spirit friend tells him. Now you must endure.

He’s angry. Lavellan feels in boiling under his skin, contained and leashed. He wants to let it loose. But he’s sad, too.

Lavellan reaches a hand out to touch his shoulder. Her hand feels heavy with his grief. She wants to hug him, and she wishes he would turn to her for comfort. But he is hard and unyielding, a stone wall of rage and sorrow.

He tells her he needs time alone. They return to Skyhold without him.

The rotunda is empty for some time.

…

 

There are no announcements preceding his return. Lavellan happens to spot him walking through the gates, and she all but flies down to meet him. He’s still sad, still angry, but it’s better now.

He puts his arms around her, and she buries her face in his chest. He smells like the outdoors. “I missed you,” she mumbles, and he clutches her tighter in response. They stay like that for a while.

Later, he comes to her in her quarters. He’s much, much better now, and Lavellan’s heart sings with joy. She smiles at the sight of him, at his beautiful eyes and the soft curve of his lips.

They stand at the balcony, the silence both comfortable and awkward. She squints at the evening sun. Solas closes his eyes against the breeze she can feel blowing through her hair. She wonders if he ever had hair, and in her mind’s eye, she imagines him with long, flowing locks that cascade down the balcony.

She giggles.

“What is it?”

She tries hard to stifle her laughter. “Nothing, nothing,” she says as innocently as she can. She saunters toward him, face tilted up, and smiles. “You look so very dashing, Solas.”

“I was under the impression that I looked like an unwashed apostate hobo.”

This time, she can’t control it. She laughs in his face, giggling and gasping until she’s breathless. Solas smiles, and takes her face in both his hands. “You are so beautiful,” he murmurs. “You are so beautiful when you laugh.”

Lavellan pauses, mid-giggle, and stares at him with wide eyes. Heat spreads across her face from her neck. Her gaze travels to his lips, and she feels her body tingle all over with the memory of it, of their kiss in the Fade, and then in the rotunda.

She leans forward.

But then something’s wrong. He’s turning away, and Lavellan can almost see the walls slamming down inside his head. Unbidden, she reaches for him, grasping the corner of his sleeve. Her eyes are wide again – this time with… Fear? Shock? She can’t name it, but it makes her tighten her grip.

For several moments that feel like an eternity between them, they are locked in a standstill. Lavellan holds her breath and feels her fingernails digging into the flesh of her palm; Solas looks into her eyes, a war raging within him.

She can almost tell the exact moment he wins the war.

His resolve breaks. His muscles relax. His mouth softens.

And his lips are on hers.

It overwhelms her, makes her claw at his back and moan into his mouth. He holds her firmly, and they break apart, once, twice, only to join again. His tongue is in her mouth, breath hot against her cheek, and Lavellan feels a jolt of pure desire travel down her stomach, and lower still. Solas touches her body, caresses her arms and cups her ass, pressing her as close to him as he possibly can. She grasps two fistfuls of his sweater, wanting – no, _needing_ him closer, closer, closer—

Solas pulls away so she can catch her breath.

She’s panting, and her whole body tingles. Her head is swimming, heartbeat hammering away against her chest. She feels hot all over, embarrassed at herself, but one quick look at Solas tells her she’s not the only one feeling this way.

“ _Ar lath ma, vhenan_.”

Lavellan looks at him and she knows – she _knows_ – that he means it.

…

 

One night, he catches her as she’s going into her rooms. Moonlight filters through the stained glass and it makes him look otherworldly, ethereal. He bends down and steals a kiss.

“Hello there, _vhenan_ ,” she whispers. The endearment slips easily from her lips, and she loves it, because now she’s no longer _Inquisitor_ , no longer _Herald_ , but simply Ellana and _vhenan_.

Solas is her _vhenan_.

He holds the side of her face, hovering his thumb across her lips. She takes it in her mouth, runs her tongue over it, and gives it a long, slow suck. She’s really, really glad no one’s around at this hour. A devilish grin at her lips, she leans close and nips his earlobe. “Let’s go somewhere… private.”

By private, she means, of course, her quarters. She guides Solas through the door, shutting it with a slam and bolting it shut for extra measure. The movement doesn’t escape his notice, and he smirks at her.

Moments before pinning her against the door and claiming her lips with yet another kiss. She gasps against his open mouth; it wasn’t wholly unexpected, but it still took her breath away. She moans as he presses himself close, hard, and she grinds her hips against his in response.

His breath hitches, and before she knows it he has both hands under her ass, lifting her up, and Lavellan wraps her legs around his waist and _squeezes_. He carries them both up the stairs, and when they reach the bed, he lays her down with care.

She toys with the button of her shirt.

Solas kisses her throat, and when he removes her shirt, his movements are swift and sure. Lavellan fumbles with his clothing in comparison, clutching the bone pendant he always wears.

He stops.

He straightens, straddling her. Lavellan watches, breath held, as he removes the necklace. He stares at it for a while before dropping it on her bedside table.

“What’s wrong?” she asks. Her brows furrow.

“Nothing, _vhenan_.”

“It’s not nothing.” She sits up, then, pushes Solas back so she can look at him square in the eyes.

She watches him think, until, at long last, he replies, “One day, Ellana. I’ll explain.” There’s a determined set to his chin.

“But not today?”

He shakes his head, resolute. “Not today.”

Lavellan reaches for him. Right now, she believes, both of them are content to not talk.

He kisses her, lips warm and soft, and they both take turns undressing each other, unhurried. She shivers when her clothes are gone, but Solas presses another kiss to her forehead. “You are so beautiful, _vhenan_.”

He kisses a trail from her throat to her stomach, stopping at the hardened peaks of her breasts, nipping, sucking. She gasps when he goes even lower, hitting all the right spots. His fingers join in pursuit, teasing and spreading her wetness all over her.

It doesn’t take long before she crests over.

She moans and gasps, an incoherent mess grasping fistfuls of the sheets. When the last of the pleasure dies out, she’s covered in a thin sheen of sweat.

Blindly, she reaches for Solas. He covers her body with his own and kisses her hard. She can taste herself on him, and it makes her even dizzier than she already is. He slips a hand between the both of them, touching her _there_ , circling and teasing until she feels it building up again.

“ _Ar lath ma_ ,” she whispers. “ _Ar lath ma, vhenan._ ”

He enters her slowly, and it is pure torture.

She grinds her hips and tries to meet his movement. She tries digging her fingernails into his shoulders. “Solas, _please_ …”

He thrusts inside her.

She cries out, pulling him close, burying her face in the crook of his neck. They move against each other in tandem, melding together until they are a mess of tongues and teeth, limbs and desire. He fills her up so deliciously, and he’s so so warm. His tongue delves into her mouth, their movements quicken, and she feels herself clenching and coiling tighter and tighter and then she explodes, stars in her eyes and moaning into his mouth, and he follows, coming inside of her.

They are both breathless and panting, and he caresses her face. He lies down beside, and pulls her to his chest. Lavellan kisses his throat, warm and languid in the afterglow.

“ _Ar lath ma_ , Ellana.”

“I love you,” she replies quietly.

He strokes her back, her arms, the silence only broken by the sound of their breaths. He presses small kisses to the top of her head, fiddling with her hair, his other hand twined with hers. Lavellan falls asleep to the sound of his heartbeat.

…

 

A few days later, duties of the Inquisition drag her to Halamshiral. Solas follows her. He wears a Very Ugly Hat, but it’s all right.

They share a dance in a balcony under the moonlight, and he kisses her so very, very sweetly. She’s still shaken from everything that’s happened at the court, but Solas makes her calm. When the music stops playing, they both lean against the balcony, his arm around her, and they look up into the night sky and the stars.

Everywhere with him feels like home.

…

 

She’s curled up in his chair, asleep again, but when she wakes someone has draped a blanket over her and her neck feels sore. Solas is painting again. She sees the green-black mess that is the raw Fade and the blue and white shapes of the Winter Palace. Despite everything terrible that’s happened, the memory of that one dance with him makes her smile.

His back is to her, and Lavellan imagines his broad shoulders, bared to her. Part of it is imagination, part of it memory. She remembers the Ridiculous Hat, and lets out a giggle.

“Thinking inappropriate thoughts again, _vhenan_?” Solas asks without turning to look at her.

She giggles even more. “Maybe,” she drawls. “I was merely wondering if Cole appreciated your hat.”

Solas, predictably, does not comment on the hat.

He continues, and Lavellan watches him mix the paints together. It’s a painstaking process, she learns, painting frescoes. She doesn’t disturb him – not physically at least.

His bone pendant has been placed on the table, presumably so he wouldn’t get paint all over it; Lavellan strokes the length of it with one cautious finger. “Solas?” she calls.

“Yes?”

“You know, you never did explain,” she broaches. “About the pendant.” She’d only recently learned that it was a wolf jaw.

That makes him pause.

He turns around this time. At first Lavellan wonders if she said something wrong; maybe it’s something traumatic. Creators know there are things she doesn’t ever want to think about. She opens her mouth to apologize, but Solas speaks first.

“It reminds me of my roots, _vhenan_ ,” he says. His expression is neutral – neutral enough for her to know that something isn’t right. “I will explain it, in due time, but… not now.”

His eyes are a silent plea.

Lavellan lets it go.

She stands, and walks to him, bends down where he’s sitting on the floor, and kisses the top of his head. “Finish up your painting quick,” she tells him. He cranes his neck up to look at her, and she offers him a tentative smile. He returns it, and she feels a wave of relief; everything is going to be all right.

“I miss you in bed,” she adds.

Solas makes a sound that could almost be described as a snort. “Is that why you slept in my chair?”

She gives him a sleepy smile. “Evidently.”

He hooks his arm around her knees, and presses his lips against the side of her thigh. “Silly,” he murmurs.

“You love me anyway.”

He chuckles. “Yes, I do.”

…

 

After the Temple of Mythal, in which Lavellan does not drink from the Well of Sorrows, Solas pulls her into a fierce embrace and doesn’t seem to want to let go. He doesn’t leave her side for the rest of the day, not even to paint.

A day later, he takes her to Crestwood, to a secluded cove.

He tells her the truth. He tells her about the vallaslin. Lavellan feels as if that’s not what he originally meant to say, but it doesn’t really matter at this point.

Because he’s leaving her.

 _Why_ , she screams. _Tell me this is a lie, Solas, tell me you’re not serious. Tell me this is a dream and this isn’t real. Tell me you love me._

But all she manages to push through her lips are, “Solas, don’t do this. I love you. I _need_ you.”

Her words are a broken whisper, a strangled cry as she reaches for him, and he backs away. “ _Vhenan_.”

He turns to leave. “I’m sorry. It is my fault. I’m sorry,” he says.

“Don’t go,” she pleads.

But he’s already gone, and perhaps he wasn’t ever here in the first place.

…

 

Lavellan wants everything to burn.

Anger is a terrible kind of beauty. She wants to tear down entire empires, set fire to mountains and watch the smoke fill the sky and swallow up everything.

That’s the terrible part.

The beauty? The beauty is that it keeps her going, keeps her _functional_ , and doesn’t make her collapse into a huge mess in her room. It keeps her on her feet, well enough to read reports and make decisions and resolve pointless conflicts between petty nobles, and sometimes, she wonders if this is all the Inquisition is.

Her friends spot something amiss almost immediately. They take turns trying to cheer her up, and while she appreciates the effort, it doesn’t help. She’s pretty sure at least Leliana and Bull already know what’s happened, but Dorian is the first to come to the conclusion on his own.

He and Sera form an unlikely alliance, and, to the best of her understanding, spend the next few days hurling things at inopportune moments right into the rotunda. Or so they say.

Lavellan doesn’t go near the rotunda anymore.

But one night, when the moonlight shines into her room, Lavellan is struck by its beauty. She gathers her blankets around herself, and crawls to the balcony. She sits down, and she remembers. She lets herself remember, lets herself feel, until her toes are cold and her face is cold and her heart hurts so much she wants to tear it out from her chest and throw it away.

She cries.

…

 

He vanishes after Corypheus dies.

_Whatever comes, I want you to know that what we had was real._

She doesn’t know what to believe anymore.

Leliana informs her that Solas is a liar; the village he claimed to be from is nothing but a ruin in Tevinter, its name barely even preserved. Somehow, Lavellan believes he didn’t lie. There were a lot of things he didn’t say, but he isn’t a liar.

She finds courage in herself, and finally, after – she doesn’t know how long it’s been, really, she’s not keen on keeping track – she steps into the rotunda.

His frescoes are still beautiful. He painted the Temple of Mythal, too. The final one looks unfinished. There’s a sword in it, and a wolf, and a dragon. It’s not done, but perhaps it’s better that way.

He left the wolf jaw bone on the table.

Two years pass.

…

 

She tracks him through eluvians, chases him across the continent.

The Crossroads are a beautiful place. It occurs to her to wonder how it would look if Solas ever thought to paint it.

But Solas isn’t here to chronicle her journeys anymore.

She finds notes, scattered through all a number of obscure places. Notes that don’t make sense, at first. Notes she doesn’t share with anyone. Now, however, they start to make sense.

Now, she understands.

He is Fen’Harel.

After two years of loneliness, she sets eyes on him again, and he’s still beautiful, even more so.

A terrible kind of beauty.

She doesn’t lower her staff. Solas looks at her, a sad smile upon his lips. “ _Vhenan_ ,” he says. _Vhenan_ , she remembers him saying. His voice sends chills down her spine. She’s covered in blood, and he’s impeccable, a pelt of fur over his shoulder. It looks right on him, as if it’s how he’s supposed to look.

The jawbone pendant suddenly feels ten times heavier around her neck.

But it’s hidden underneath her armor, so he can’t see it.

“You are Fen’Harel,” she says.

And then he starts speaking, explaining, just as he’d once promised to. But Lavellan is dissociating, depersonalizing. She feels like an observer in a foreign body.

She cuts him off. “Why did you leave me, Solas?”

“It was my burden to bear, Ellana,” he replies simply. “I would not let you suffer the same fate.”

Despite herself, she drops her staff. It clatters to the ground, and she feels like she wants to do the same. She wants to collapse, and she wants it all to be a dream.

“Why didn’t you trust me?”

“I do, _vhenan_ , I do.” He extends his hand towards her, but seems to think better of it. He lets his hand drop. “You deserve better.”

At that, she draws herself up. Icy rage spreads through her veins, and when she speaks, it’s a miracle her voice is calm. “And the elven servants? The people who join your cause? What of them? What of _me_? I _loved_ you, Solas.” She takes a step toward him.

 _I still love you_ , is what she doesn’t say.

“I would not have you follow me into death.”

“So you assume I can’t even think for myself?” She clenches both her hands into fists. “And everyone else? Are we not even people to you?”

The anchor flares, and through sheer willpower, she doesn’t react to the pain.

He opens his mouth, hand once again outstretched, and moves towards her. Lavellan stands her ground.

In two years, her heart has been torn open, and she’s forced it to heal. She avoided pouring salt on her wounds as best as she could. When Dorian left for Tevinter, when Varric left for Kirkwall, when she sees Leliana’s tireless devotion in tracking Solas down – despite her duties as Divine – bear no fruit, she endured.

Now, standing in front of him, she doesn’t quite know what to do anymore.

“You showed me I was wrong,” he admits.

She grasps his wrist, pulls him to her. He doesn’t resist, and she leans in close enough to kiss, but not quite. She feels his breath on her face, controlled and restrained, and there’s so many things she wants to say to him. _Let me join you. Please stop this. Don’t do this. Don’t leave me again._

Everything dies at the tip of her tongue when she hears what he says next.

“ _Ar lath ma, vhenan_.”

He means it, too. Lavellan knows it’s not possible to fake that much pain in his eyes.

Why does he say it like he’s never going to see her again?

Her anchor flares again, and she cries out this time, falling over. It hurts. She feels it pulsing, like a heartbeat that’s not her own. Tears stream down from her eyes. Her vision blurs, but Solas’ eyes – an icy blue now – pierce through. He takes her arm.

“ _Var lath vir suledin_ ,” she chokes out.

He smiles, and it’s full of sadness. He leans in to kiss her, and Lavellan kisses him back without hesitation. The pain fogs her mind, and she can’t even think.

He’s still kissing her when he severs her forearm.

…

 

Lavellan dreams.

She dreams she’s in the rotunda again, and his last words to her echo through the air.

_I will never forget you._

She dreams she has both arms again, and she lays her palms flat against the frescoes. He isn’t here to paint the rest anymore, and really, she’s glad. The Crossroads are beautiful, the eluvians are a wonder, but she doesn’t think she can stand to see something painted of them – especially if the painter is Solas himself.

She dreams she’s wearing his pendant, and it’s warm to the touch. She dreams she still has the anchor, and she feels his heartbeat through each painful pulse.

In the dreaming, she feels him watching.

Lavellan knows better than to turn around and look for him; she knows it will only drive him away. The fact that she’s fallen in love with the Dread Wolf is a cloud in her mind, but the months following, where more and more has been uncovered about him, she finds herself understanding why he did what he did. Not agreeing, of course, but she understands.

She could even forgive him, possibly, if the right circumstances ensued.

Possibly.

For now, though, she’s content to stand in the Fade, right at this rotunda. It reminds her of the Vir Dirthara, a little, and if Solas wants to restore anything, she thinks he should start there.

Her anger has dulled a little, and she thinks it’s because of what he said. _Ar lath ma._ She knows it’s foolish to let it affect her, but she can’t help but hope.

The Fade is quiet, and no spirits disturb her.

When Lavellan wakes, her hand is red from clutching the jawbone too tight. She’s in her bed in Skyhold, and it’s very cold.

No one uses the rotunda anymore.

…

 

Skyhold is a flutter of tension and silence. After the Exalted Council, many of the staff has left. It’s a lot quieter now, which gives her more room to think, and more room to wander.

Some areas have started to collect dust.

She doesn’t see the need to rectify that, though. Some places – and therefore some things – are best left undisturbed.

What’s left of the Inquisition devotes themselves to finding – and stopping – Solas. Little things. She’s managed to intercept his agents once or twice now.

It’s progress, at the very least.

Solas haunts her dreams as a ghostly presence. She feels him watching. Some days she takes the bait and tries to look for him. She’s tried hurling insults into the air. Her obscenities haven’t attracted any demons yet, and she’s surprised. Perhaps Solas is watching over her after all.

Which is why, when word spreads through Skyhold that something is happening in the rotunda, Lavellan isn’t surprised.

This time, when they reunite, things are… calmer, to say the least.

Everyone else flares up, protective and wary, but Lavellan uses her Inquisitor Voice, one she hasn’t wanted to use in a long time, and orders them to stand _down_. Then she orders them to leave, and shut the door behind them.

Lavellan feels the barrier of silence he casts envelop them, and she speaks.

“You watched me in the Fade,” she says. He doesn’t deny it. “What do you want? They’ll hunt you down if you stay here, Solas.”

She feels herself crumbling, her resolve fraying, at the sight of him. He looks so solemn, his eyes so piercing, and it feels her heart with pain and her eyes with tears. She cries in front of him.

She doesn’t fight him when he pulls her into his embrace.

He isn’t Fen’Harel. He isn’t the Dread Wolf. He’s not the illusive enemy they’ve been trying to fight. He’s Solas, just Solas, and he is her _vhenan_.

She cries what feels like two years’ worth of tears.

…

 

When she wakes up in her bed, she expects to be alone, but she isn’t, because Solas is beside her.

He’s taken off the jawbone pendant for her, she notices. Maybe she won’t need it anymore now that he’s here.

At that thought, she tenses, pokes him with her finger. His eyes open with perfect clarity.

“If you’re ever going to leave again,” she enunciates, “do it now.”

One thing she’s sure about Solas is that it’s hard for him to change his mind. When he accepted her advances, perhaps he’d always meant to leave her, in the end. Lavellan hasn’t really made peace with that yet, the anger of it all still a sharp thorn buried somewhere in her heart.

Now, she’s under her blankets, and she’s warm. She should be sleepy, but her mind has been taken over with a sharp blast of lucidity. Solas is lying beside her, and he’s still. He doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. So she waits.

And waits.

He still doesn’t move.

“I’m not going anywhere unless you want me to, _vhenan_.”

Well.

She’s burning with a thousand questions, but she’s tired of them. She’s tired of the relentless _thinking_ she’s had to do all these years. She wants to ask, but she doesn’t. Something’s different this time, though. Solas looks like he would answer anything.

She could forgive him, possibly. If the right circumstances ensued. She’s not kicking him out. Yet.

Solas takes her silence as encouragement, which isn’t wholly inaccurate.

“ _Ar lath ma_ ,” he says.

He looks at her in the eyes, and in that instant, Lavellan feels as if a thousand words have transpired between them.

She tentatively pulls at the edge of his sleeve. “ _Ar lath ma_.” She whispers it, and it’s barely audible, but he hears her anyway.

It starts slow. He shifts himself closer, and she lets him twine his fingers with hers. She puts her head on his chest, and he embraces her. She remembers this, she missed this, and somehow she knows she won’t have to miss it anymore.

Lavellan falls asleep to the sound of his heartbeat, finally home.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! So. I tried to write smut. I don't know how to write smut.
> 
> That aside, thank you for reading this far! (I know this is kind of long. I got carried away, I'm sorry) I'd love to hear your thoughts, do let me know what you think!
> 
> \---  
> find me at learielle.tumblr.com! nothing much there yet, but do come and send me prompts and cry with me and other stuff 'u'


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